


This Condition of Mine

by 3raser (kay_elizabeth_roxx)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Eames Sucks Literally Every Cock, Fluff and Smut, M/M, spermpire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 11:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4834457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_elizabeth_roxx/pseuds/3raser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is unaware of Eames particular condition...until he isn't. Spermpire!Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Condition of Mine

Arthur learns of Eames' condition by necessity, honestly. The Peterson job was smooth sailing...until they awoke to the sound of security kicking the door down, that is. Everything was a bit of a blur from there.

“Shit,” Arthur grunts, barricading the door with a patio table. The roof beneath their feet is covered in gravel, a small tile deck area to their left. “They won't see us up here, but we'll still have to wait them out.”

“I suppose,” Eames mumbles in reply, looking a bit peaky. Arthur attributes the sallow look of his cheeks to stress, and watches him slump down against the wall. “Hopefully Cobb found somewhere safe.”

“Mhmm,” Arthur agrees, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. Near-death experiences usually aren't enough to kill Eames' good cheer, (in fact, they often encourage it), so it's rather strange to see him looking so somber.

Three hours later, Eames is looking downright ill. Sweat is beading at his temples, all of the color having fled his face long ago, and his broad shoulders are trembling. Arthur isn't actually an asshole, most of the time, so he asks him if he's all right.

“Just fine, my darling,” Eames airily replies, his grin wavering unconvincingly. “Feeling a bit under the weather, is all.”

A few minutes later, his breaths have become alarmingly shallow, and Arthur kneels beside him, clasping his shoulder. “Eames. Eames? What's the matter? Do you need a doctor?”

Eames' fingers twitch towards Arthur's belt, the movement almost too quick to catch. The mid-afternoon sun has warmed the gravel beneath them, but Eames is still quivering as if he's cold, his lips tinged purple. He looks feverish and frozen at the same time, somehow, his pupils dilated.

“I don't need a doctor,” Eames rasps, chuckling painfully. “I should probably tell you—yes. I suppose it's necessary.”

“What is?” Arthur asks, a bit apprehensive. He's done his research on Eames, of course, but he could have missed something: diabetes, drug addiction, blood pressure problems....

“I....” Eames begins, looking wildly uncomfortable. His eyes flick around the rooftop, as if there might be an escape route hidden somewhere. “Well you see, petal, I have a bit of a condition. It's been too long since I—well. I need....”

His dark eyes suddenly dart down to Arthur's groin, his tongue snaking out to touch the corner of his mouth. Something warm wiggles its way down Arthur's spine, and he lilts a questioning eyebrow.

“I can go a few days without, but it's already been too long,” Eames rushes out. A bead of sweat trails down his cheek. “You see, I.... Sperm. I need it to, well. I suppose that's obvious.”

“Are you being serious?” Arthur asks, after a long moment of silence. “How do you.... How in the world do you function while we're in the middle of a job if you need something like that regularly?”

“Well, Cobb and Yusuf already know,” Eames murmurs, and Arthur just stares at him for a moment before his jaw drops. All of the private meetings and lunch breaks suddenly make sense.

He doesn't stop to analyze the unpleasant jealousy that worms down the back of his neck at the thought.

“Why the fuck didn't you tell me, Eames?” he asks instead, standing up. “This is important information! What if you ever got stuck somewhere where you couldn't.... And why am I the only one you haven't told? I'm not actually an asshole, you know; I wouldn't make a joke of you, or—“

“Arthur,” Eames begs, dragging himself closer and clenching his fingers into his slacks. “I'm sorry, I just—I didn't want you to feel like you were obligated to.... It's just that I've always been legitimately attracted to you, Arthur, and I—I mean, I've always managed—“

He looks desperate, his normally jovial face sheet-white and sickly, and Arthur reaches between them, undoes his belt. A small noise escapes Eames' throat, one that might be a protest or a plea.

“Shh, I know that you—just do it, Eames,” Arthur says, and Eames moans in relief, burying his face into his groin.

Arthur gasps at the feeling, stomping down the arousal that arises as he watches Eames on his knees, nudging his briefs down and snuffling against his erection. It's a necessary admission, Arthur tells himself. A helpful, impersonal service that Arthur will get no enjoyment from.

Convincing himself of this is a losing battle, of course. Arthur may be a professional, but he can't deny the attraction he feels for the man in front of him. His very presence is stifling, even sprawled helplessly at Arthur's feet, thighs slung wide.

Blunt fingernails dig into his thighs as Eames rubs his face against him, suckling wet kisses all along his length. Arthur's fingers twine experimentally into Eames' hair, just cradling the back of his head, and Eames grunts like he can't help it, tonguing the crown of his cock. He's gorgeous and hungry, and Arthur lets him slide his erection into his mouth, his lips shining with spit.

Eames works him over quickly and efficiently, his full lips sliding up and down his shaft. A continuous rumble is vibrating in his chest, his eyes shut tight, and Arthur watches him, watches his throat clench and release.

“Fuck,” Arthur grunts, embarrassingly close to coming, but that's what Eames wants, after all. He's mouthing hungrily at the head of his cock now, in fact, whining low in his throat.

“Please, please,” he begs, sliding his hot mouth down around the shaft once again, and Arthur lets go, gritting his teeth against a long moan.

“Mmm,” Eames sighs, his throat pulsing. Arthur is already spent, but Eames continues to languidly mouth at him, lapping the last few drops of come from the tip of his cock.

Arthur lets go of Eames' hair and lets him sit back on his haunches. His eyes are bright and grateful, face flushed with new color. He looks healthy and content once again, and Arthur smiles, leaning down to give him a chaste, mostly-unnecessary kiss.

There's the knock at the door, and Arthur whips his head around in alarm before realizing that it's only Cobb. He very nearly flushes when he realizes that his cock is still hanging out, but instead he neatly tucks himself away and tugs the table away from the door.

“Thanks,” Cobb says, walking out onto the roof. He looks rumpled and tired, but otherwise unharmed. “I think we've managed to give them the slip.”

Cobb looks down at Eames for a moment, pausing. Eames' hair is sticking up in a million directions, and he's still licking his lips. He glances away, shy.

“So I see Eames finally decided to bite the bullet,” Cobb comments. “It's about time. Now you can help him out on the job as well.” 

He glances up, looking a little sheepish. “If you're willing, that is.”

“I'll certainly do what I can,” Arthur assures him, and Eames flushes a bit, smoothing down his hair.

~

Arthur learns many things over the next few weeks. Some of them are mundane, but most are not. 

Eames' symptoms become a creased, oft-read novel tucked away in the back of Arthur's mind. His cycle varies a bit (he needs feeding every two to three days, usually), but once it starts, it plays out with little deviation.

A tweed jacket is removed. Patterned sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, revealing thick, muscular forearms. His charming, crooked smile is brought up a notch, his pupils dilating whenever he lays eye on a man. 

It's not intentional, that much Arthur can tell, but nevertheless the signs are there. Eames' body is subconsciously seeking a mate, his eyes drifting to throats and crotches. Arthur can very nearly smell the sex on him when he's like this, smiling slow and letting his mouth part, showing off moist glimpses of tongue. 

Right now, Eames is scanning a large dossier, his lips pursed around the end of a sharpie.

“Arthur!” Ariadne repeats, elbowing him hard. Arthur glares at her. “I said, what do you think of this level?”

“I'm afraid the core might be a bit too easy to penetrate,” he replies. “Try looping a few hallways back around to keep the projections busy.”

“Will do,” she nods, scribbling a note onto the edge of her blueprint. 

She pauses for a moment, raising her eyebrows. “You don't have to watch him like a hawk, you know. He'll ask when he needs it.”

The term _needs it_ rolls around in Arthur's head a few times. Eames' cheeks are beginning to pale, and he pushes the pen a bit deeper into his mouth, absently.

“I know,” Arthur replies, a little snappish.

Ariadne doesn't bring it up again.

~

The sunlight slanting through the window plays uncomfortably across Eames' skin, and he shifts, his entire body prickling. His concentration is waning; he can feel the hunger starting up in the pit of his stomach. Sweat is gathering in the hollow of his throat, and he rubs his thumb against his bottom lip, resisting the urge to slip it inside.

A window across the room is open. This would be nice, if he weren't downwind of Arthur. He smells of laundry detergent and faded cologne, citrus gum and expo markers. 

Eames can smell the sweat gathering in the crease of his thigh.

When Cobb walks by, nose buried in a thick file, Eames catches his wrist.

Cobb looks down at him, impassive, and understands. “I really need to get through this, Eames. Sorry.”

He pauses, squinting across the room. “Yusuf! It's your turn to take care of Eames!”

“I'm working on the compound,” Yusuf complains, raising a hot beaker as evidence. “Arthur! Feed Eames!”

Eames' skin feels two sizes too small for his body, and Arthur is just looking at him, face blank.

Eames can just make out the outline of his cock through his flawlessly-tailored trousers, and he licks his lips, instinctive.

His cheeks burn when he realizes what he's doing. “I—I'm fine, petal, really. You don't—”

Arthur stares. Crooks a finger. “Come here, Eames.”

Eames goes.

He tastes even better the second time.

~

 

The first time Arthur walks in on Eames with someone else, he must admit it's a shock. Cobb is sitting on top of his desk, _looking at a blueprint,_ for god's sake, and Eames is between his thighs, suckling away.

They aren't touching, save for the hand and mouth Eames has got on Cobb's prick. Arthur feels vaguely...not good.

Cobb glances up at him. “What're you looking for?”

“The Sumner dossier,” Arthur replies, trying his best to ignore the sandy-haired head bobbing between Cobb's legs. 

“In the drawer,” Cobb gestures, and Arthur hesitates in the doorway. The trip to the filing cabinet is short, but he can't avoid a glimpse of Eames' full lips, parting around a swollen head. 

His eyes are shut tight. Arthur is glad for that.

“Almost there,” Cobb murmurs, and Eames moans a little in his throat.

Arthur beats a hasty retreat.

~

“How can they be so damn blasé about it?” Arthur mumbles, martini in hand. He's brooding at the moment, his elbows set up on the bar. “They act like getting sucked off is a chore or something.”

Ariadne watches him for a minute, silent. They're friends—maybe even good friends—and she's always been fantastic at sorting through his bullshit.

“Well, not to be rude to Eames, but.... It really is a chore to them, Arthur.”

She sips her drink. “And would them enjoying it really make you happier?”

A bolt of something unpleasant travels the length of his spine. He grunts vaguely in reply, knocking back another shot.

She sighs and pulls a pen from her pocket.

“Here,” she says, taking a napkin. “I'll illustrate the situation for you. This...is you.”

Arthur glances down and snorts. She's drawn a stick figure with a tie.

“This,” she continues, drawing a line beneath him, “is the metaphorical fence you're straddling.”

_Straddling,_ Arthur thinks.

_I'm far too drunk for this,_ he thinks.

“Now, if you decide to fall off on this side of the fence,” she explains, drawing an arrow, “then you'll be with Cobb and Yusuf, and maybe one day you'll be okay with it being a chore.”

Stick-figure Cobb is squinting, and stick-figure Yusuf looks mildly disinterested. Arthur's forehead creases.

“But if you fall off this way,” she continues, a new weight to her words, “well.... You'll finally be face-to-face with the giant, neon-pink, flaming elephant that's been hanging out in the room since inception. Hell, since before inception, for all I know.”

“And what does this metaphorical flaming elephant represent, exactly?” Arthur hedges, but Ariadne shakes her head.

“No,” she chastises, pointing her pen at him. It shakes a little drunkenly in her grasp. “That's for you to figure out.”

Arthur can't quite remember what she said when he wakes up the next morning, but he has the sneaking suspicion that it was something important. The napkin shoved into his pocket has been crumpled beyond recognition.

~

Keep working, Arthur thinks. His knuckles are white around the pen in his hand.

Eames is beneath the desk, nosing happily up his thigh. He'd trundled up just a minute ago, twiddling his thumbs and flushing all the way down his neck. He had eyed the curve of his hips, licking that obscene mouth.

Arthur had spread his legs in welcome, and now. Well.

His pen skitters across the page, leaving a vague scribble in its wake. Soft noises are leaking out from beneath the desk, where Eames is inhaling against the crotch of his trousers.

A bristly cheek rubs the length of his erection through his pants, soft lips parting to give the smallest of whines. Arthur knows what he's waiting for, and he opens his belt with unsteady fingers to give it to him.

The click of the buckle pierces the silence of the warehouse like a bullet, and Arthur winces. 

No one spares them a glance—Cobb is drawing something on the whiteboard, Ariadne is fiddling with her hot glue gun, and Yusuf is hunched over his latest batch of chemicals.

Eames hitches Arthur's slender thigh over his broad shoulder, nestling in more comfortably against his hips. Arthur's nipples harden when Eames takes his cock out, and he instinctively looks down, catching a glimpse of lowered eyelashes and moist lips.

“Have you dug up anything more on Sumners?” someone asks. It takes Arthur a few moments to realize that Yusuf is standing on the other side of the desk, looking at him. Waiting for an answer.

Beneath the desk, Eames purses his lips around the curve of his cockhead, sighing happily.

“Yeah,” Arthur replies, his voice cracking a bit. He clears his throat. “His birth mother is still alive, but she has no interest in meeting him. That might be a convenient emotional outlet for us.”

“Good,” Yusuf nods. “Oh, and once Eames is finished, tell him I'm ready to start test rounds with the new compound.”

“Will do,” Arthur agrees, and Yusuf wanders back to his station, picking up a beaker.

Now that the talking has ceased, Arthur can hear every slick, wet noise coming from between his legs. Eames is gagging himself, trying to take him deeper, and Arthur lifts his other thigh onto his shoulder, enclosing him between two slender stretches of leg.

Arthur reaches down to cradle the nape of his neck, and Eames moans, turning his face to suck at his pale inner thigh.

“Please, Arthur,” he begs, looking up at him through his eyelashes, and Arthur comes undone with a low grunt, ropes of semen catching on Eames' lips and tongue.

Eames sighs, his eyelashes fluttering with contentment. He still looks shy, somehow, and Arthur smiles, running a thumb slowly across his cheekbone.

“God, you're gorgeous,” Eames murmurs, before dragging his tongue across his lips and blushing fiercely. The words jolt the air around them, throwing Arthur's thoughts into a tailspin, and he quickly zips himself up, pushing away from the desk.

Eames avoids him for the rest of the day, his cheeks ruddy every time their eyes meet across the room.

~

Eames dawdles around his desk for two hours longer than necessary that night, shuffling through his files with no real purpose. He should have left for the hotel long ago, but, well. 

Arthur is nearest the door, still tapping away at his laptop.

Half an hour later, Eames stands and heaves a deep sigh, gathering his papers. The rhythmic sound of typing slows when he passes Arthur's desk. Stops.

“Eames,” he says, and Eames closes his eyes. Turns to face him.

“Yes?”

Arthur shoves his laptop into his satchel, standing to meet him. His eyes are cool, reserved.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Eames gets there first.

“Do you—” He clears his throat. Inhales. “Would you like to go get a drink with me?”

Arthur stares at him blankly for a moment, just long enough for the first wisps of dread to settle into Eames' stomach. 

And then his cheeks dimple in a smile.

~

Eames has never smiled this much in his life, he thinks. Arthur has a wine glass cradled between his fingers, a curl of dark hair bouncing against his forehead when he laughs.

The music is raucous, too-loud. Arthur pauses and slants a look at him, elbows up on the table.

“Is it difficult being the way you are?” he suddenly asks, apropos of nothing. Eames chuckles.

“Honestly? It's more of an inconvenience than anything else. Everyone is rather.... Well, you know. Apathetic about it.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says. 

He pauses. Takes another sip of his wine.

“I'm not as good at apathy as I thought,” Arthur finally murmurs, one side of his mouth drawing up. “I suppose that makes me a pain in the ass, huh?”

“Well, I don't know about that,” Eames generously replies. “You're more like a mild twinge, really.”

Arthur's eyes crinkle at the corners, and he laughs, deep from his chest.

Their calves brush beneath the table, and Eames smiles a secret smile, raising his glass.

~

When they kiss, Arthur's hips fit perfectly between his hands. Eames is delighted to find that Arthur is in fact a generous kisser, the type that throws his entire body into the act. His mouth is soft, pliant, bow-shaped.

“I didn't think your hair was capable of this kind of spontaneity, my sweet,” Eames grins, fingering the soft loops as they work their way free of the gel.

Arthur dimples, wrapping his arms around his neck to bring him closer. He tastes like cinnamon, Eames thinks.

And when Eames finally, finally gets his hands on bare skin, it's with an entirely different kind of hunger.

~

Arthur has his face pressed into a pillow and is snorting quietly into it, his hair a dark, wild halo around him. He's drooling a bit. It's quite fascinating to watch, really.

Sunlight is slanting gently through the blinds, striping the bed with light. Unfortunately, it's doing nothing to warm Eames' feet.

_This will need to be remedied,_ he thinks.

He grins, wraps his arm tighter around Arthur's waist, and presses his toes against the other man's calf.

Arthur jerks awake with a grunt, shirking away from the chill. The glare he sends Eames is groggy but venemous, hair flopping into his eyes. 

“Get your fucking freezing feet off of my legs, thanks,” he snaps, rolling over with a grunt.

“That was a lovely bit of alliteration, my petal,” Eames grins, running his thumb along the sharp cut of his hip. “And if you hadn't stolen all of the blankets....”

“Take them,” he grumbles, tossing the duvet across the bed. A minute later, he's back to snoring.

When he awakens of his own accord an hour later, he's far more amiable. 

“We're going to be late, Mr. Eames,” Arthur points out when Eames rolls on top of him. Quite the pleasant flashback from last night surfaces in Eames' mind, then: Arthur's slender thighs clinging to his hips as he fucked him, writhing and moaning.

“My dear, punctual Arthur,” Eames sighs, tracing his lips. “Can't you spare just five more minutes?”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but he's smiling as Eames kisses his eyebrows, his cheekbone, the curve of his chin. He's lovely like this, Eames thinks. Unbuttoned and unrestrained.

When they finally separate, nipping at lips and chins, Arthur's eyes have taken on a businesslike quality. It's obviously a facade, and Eames gamely quirks an eyebrow, rubbing lightly at his hips.

“So, you're—” Arthur begins. Stops. “I mean, you're okay with this being a...regular thing?”

Eames grins, his eyes twinkling. “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, lovely?”

Arthur doesn't quite blush, but it's a close thing. Eames continues without an answer, taking pity on him. 

“I'd like that very much,” Eames murmurs, stroking the curls back from his forehead. “I've been courting you practically since the first day we met.”

Arthur's mouth twitches as if he's fighting a grin. “You mean you've always been this much of a lech?”

“Only around you, my sweet,” Eames teases. 

Arthur looks at him for a long time, then, studying his face as if it were a particularly interesting piece of art. “Eames. When you feed, what.... What do you think about?”

Eames considers. Weighs his words. “Honestly? Not much of anything. It's not really a sexual experience for me. The hunger is like... well.”

He glances over at Arthur. “It's like dying of slow asphyxiation.”

Arthur winces. He, too, knows the feeling. Dying in a dream is just the same as dying in reality, after all—minus the permanence.

“The act itself never gets you off, though?” Arthur asks, genuinely curious. The question could easily be construed as insulting, if it weren't asked so earnestly. Eames kisses the underside of his jaw.

“It doesn't even get me hard,” he replies.

Guilt is an unfamiliar expression on Arthur's face. It creases his forehead, his thin eyebrows drawing in.

“But I enjoy doing it for you,” Eames protests, spots of color appearing high on his cheekbones. “Making you feel good, I mean. It's a completely different experience when it's someone that you—well.”

“Well,” Arthur repeats, and smiles.

~

Arthur enters the warehouse at a brisk trot, despite the ache between his thighs. How he beat Eames here, he has no idea—he had driven all the way back to his own hotel to change.

“Sorry I'm late,” he announces to the room at large. Cobb grunts vaguely, obviously in one of his moods.

Ariadne arches an eyebrow. “I never thought I'd see the day. What, was traffic that bad?”

“Bad enough,” Arthur replies, honestly. He doesn't mention the fact that he let Eames fuck him again in the shower that morning, gasping against the warm tiles. 

The front door clicks open, and just on cue, Eames trundles in.

“Terribly sorry I'm late,” he says, wandering casually towards Arthur's desk.

Arthur puts on his best poker-face. Eames' eyes are glittering.

Eames sets a coffee next to Arthur's laptop, tips him a wink, and keeps going.

Ariadne watches the exchange with wide eyes. “You didn't, Arthur.”

Her grin becomes decidedly shit-eating. Arthur continues shuffling through his files. 

“Oh my god, but you did,” she hisses, clapping excitedly. “You totally hooked up last night!”

“Don't be lewd,” he scolds, lips twitching. “And how in the world did you come to that conclusion?”

“Please, Arthur. I'm a woman; I can sense these things. He's looking at you like the cat that swallowed the canary!” she says. Eames is looking rather smug, bent over his research. “Plus, you've got a hickey.”

Arthur claps a hand to his neck, directly over the spot where Eames had nipped at him. Ariadne cackles in triumph.

Across the room, Eames stifles a chuckle into his fist.

~

Three jobs later, Arthur and Eames relocate to Marseille.

They buy themselves a roomy, one-bedroom flat near the center of town. The anonymity of city life is nice, but for once it's not stifling. They can go out to the market and hold hands, or to the theater, where Arthur has to whisper the lines to Eames. 

Eames' French is still shaky, but improving. Arthur is quite fond of murmuring things to him in bed, silly little nothings whispered against the shell of his ear. He wonders how much of it is understood.

Four months later, they get a phone call.

“William Eames!” Arthur shouts, shrugging his jacket on, “We're late for our reservations!”

“Just a moment, my love!” Eames yells back from the bedroom, sounding cheerful. The second half of his sentence is overlaid with the phone's shrill ringing, and Arthur sighs.

“Hello?” he answers.

“Arthur,” Saito says, mildly. “It's been a while, hasn't it?”

“Nearly five years,” Arthur agrees, keeping the small talk to a minimum. Saito is a no-nonsense kind of man.

“I have a job for you,” Saito continues, “the details of which I won't go into over the phone. Suffice to say that more than a few company secrets have been leaked, and I need to find out who is responsible.”

“Who else is working the job?”

“I've already contacted Yusuf and Ariadne,” Saito replies, “and I've found a man, name of Douglas, to work as the extractor.”

Arthur has heard of Douglas, although he's never worked with him personally. He's supposedly one of the best, and Arthur trusts Saito's judgment.

“I'm sure you've heard that I don't work alone anymore,” Arthur says. Saito chuckles.

“Of course. It's common knowledge that you come as part of a package deal now, isn't it? Mr. Eames' services would be much appreciated as well. I've chartered a private jet to transport you to San Francisco, if you're interested. It should arrive in Marseille within the hour.”

“We'll be there,” Arthur assures him, and hangs up.

Eames pauses in hallway, buttoning his cuffs. “Who was that on the phone, petal?”

Arthur grins. “Dinner's off, Will. Pack your bags.”

~

Saito, as always, is efficient: a large dossier is waiting for them on the plane. Consequently, Arthur spends most of the 12-hour flight sifting through the information with the help of a highlighter and an ample amount of coffee. 

The core issue is really quite simple: a handful of highly-confidential new concepts developed by Saito's company have been leaked to a competitor. Saito has a fair amount of leads and suspects already lined up, but as far as Arthur can tell, the first hurdle will be deciding who to extract from.

Two days later, Arthur has a lead.

“Saito,” he calls, tapping his knuckles against the door before entering. “I've found something that you might like to see.”

“What is it?” Saito asks, looking up from a large file. He's standing in front of his large, mahogany desk, and Arthur takes a moment to admire the impeccable cut of his suit.

Eames' face is currently buried between his thighs.

“I've found a lead,” Arthur reports, walking over and proffering a few sheets of paper. Eames gurgles a little, whining. “I hacked into your Head of Security's bank account. The deposits have all been fairly uniform, except for this lump sum about a month ago. It's not large enough to be a pay-off from your competitor—I assume that would be in the millions—but it's certainly large enough to be a bribe from whomever is leaking the information.”

Saito studies the printout and smiles, satisfied. “You have my thanks. This is the lead we've been searching for, I think.”

Eames pulls off with a slick noise and looks up at them, his pupils dilated. His mouth is pink and moist, and he tugs at the hem of Saito's slacks, whining low in his throat.

“Try not to ruin the stitching, Eames,” Saito says, regarding him coolly. Eames whimpers but obediently releases his grip, reaching instead for the warmth of Arthur's ankle.

“Why don't you announce your findings at dinner tonight?” Saito suggests, setting his file down on the desktop. “Our extractor isn't due for another two days, but we can begin planning in the meantime.”

He pauses, eyelashes lowering for just a moment. Between his legs, Eames purrs out his pleasure, fat lips suckling come from the head of his cock.

“In fact, I'll call the group together for an early lunch,” Saito continues after a moment, zipping himself up. On the floor, Eames is licking his lips. 

Saito tips him a nod and leaves, the creases in his trousers quickly falling away. Eames' knees crack when he drags himself to his feet.

“What were you telling him about, then?” Eames questions, his cheeks a dusky shade of pink. He looks content.

“You'll hear about it in a minute,” Arthur smiles, picking up his printouts.

~

Saito wires them the money exactly three minutes after the job is completed. That's the extent of their post-job interaction, usually, but two weeks later there's a package waiting for them on their front stoop.

Eames is sprawled out on the sofa, eyes at half-mast. He glances up when Arthur carries the package inside, however, his eyebrows quirking. “What's that, my love?”

“Don't know,” Arthur replies, slicing through the packing tape. The package is no bigger than a shoebox, really, and there's no return address.

There's a note tucked inside, and Arthur slowly unfolds it, smoothing out the thick paper. It's written in black ink, the handwriting spiky and precise.

_Dear E & A,_

_This medication might have some effect on Mr. Eames' condition. Mr. Yusuf has already tested the compound extensively under my direction, so I assure you that they are safe. If they work to your liking, send a note to the address copied below, and I'll arrange regular deliveries. Consider it a small thanks from me._

_Saito_

Beneath the note is a small black container, and Arthur pops it open, curious. The pills inside are small and blue; unassuming.

“Come here, Eames,” Arthur calls, rolling one into his palm.

~

They work: the first pill stalls Eames' cycle for a full three weeks.

Arthur complains about the sharp decline in blow jobs one night and Eames just laughs at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The next morning he's roused by Eames' mouth wrapping slowly around his prick, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“Now that we're sure they work,” Eames pants, once they've finished making love, “tell Saito we won't be needing any more deliveries for a while.” 

Arthur just stares at him, arching an eyebrow. 

“They'll be nice to have during jobs,” Eames explains, “but while we're at home.... Well, I've got everything I need right here.”

“I'm glad to be of service,” Arthur grins, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/20092.html?thread=50003580#t50003580) prompt at [Inception_kink](http://inception-kink.livejournal.com/)


End file.
